Watching You Watching Her
by DarkRiverTempest
Summary: Harry watches Snape watching Hermione and comes to a few painful conclusions.


Written for the wonderful Bambu345 at HP_conenvy, who requested: _SS/HG please; Harry finds out about Hermione's new, very serious relationship. _Disclaimer: Wish HP was mine, but it's not. That honor belongs to that obscenely wealthy woman in Scotland.

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He wasn't supposed to see it. Harry was sure of that. For a brief moment, Snape's eyes had lingered a little too long on his best friend, as if he were caressing every nuance of Hermione Granger with his glance, the look tender with longing. Then the passion was gone, tucked away behind a bland, rigidly controlled demeanour his professor had spent years perfecting.

It had happened during the sixth Order of the Phoenix meeting after the Final Battle. What Order members were left had gathered around the table at Grimmauld Place, the noticeable absence of several key figures acutely felt: Lupin and Tonks, Moody… Dumbledore. Oh, how that last one had hurt. At the time it had happened, Harry had thought it was because of his mentor's death, and his betrayal by the man who had perpetrated it. Not anymore, though. No, the ache in his chest had nothing to do with the Headmaster's demise. It was the fact that the man he had trusted most, trusted with his life, had held little regard for Harry except as a puppet under his control; Snape too, if he thought about it. Both he and the wizard he'd hated the most next to Voldemort had been nothing more than marionettes upon a stage, waiting for the strings to be cut and the curtains to close.

At that first meeting, he should have been focused on what Shacklebolt had to say, but all his attention was attuned to every little thing Snape did or didn't to, did or didn't say. Harry had had so many questions he wanted answers to: can you tell me more about my mother? Why were you angry with Dumbledore on my behalf? Did you love my mother so much that you sacrificed your own life in her memory? Why did Hermione Granger save your life? Why can't I seem to concentrate on anything but you? The last query left him especially uneasy. Wasn't he supposed to be reacquainting himself with Ginny Weasley? The idea left him oddly apprehensive. Too much time had passed with regards to their on-again, off-again relationship. Too many things seen that should not have been.

Harry was different now; older, maybe a little wiser, definitely darker. The sunniness of Ginny's disposition seemed like a glaring light to his soul now—something he wanted little to do with. Harry imagined this is how Snape felt most of his life, and his esteem for the powerful, isolated wizard notched higher. But what he saw that night… it left him shaken. Not because of one brief, heated glance. It was a culmination of little things that happened over the course of Order meetings, actually.

The first Order meeting, Harry was focused solely on Snape. The man, still pale and sickly-looking from his brush with death in the Shack, sat in the corner, just behind and to the right of Hermione. Harry sat further down the table, towards the middle, between Ron and Ginny. While listening to the drone of Shacklebolt list the items he deemed high priority, Harry noticed Snape list to the side and grab his neck, his eyes closed in pain. Harry would've commented on it, halting the meeting, but then he watched as Hermione surreptitiously slipped a vial into the professor's hand. Snape had clasped at it, his fingers tangling with hers briefly before letting go. Hermione's attention to Kingsley's speech had never wavered.

The second meeting happened close to Harry's birthday, and a party at the Burrow was planned for afterwards. All the Order members were invited, including Snape. It was at this point that Ginny's affectionate touches started to bother him more than interest him. He shrugged it off on the scant sleep he achieved on any given night. During that meeting, he noticed Snape had dark circles under his eyes as well, and he wondered how much rest the man had been getting. Hermione was sitting near him once more, her own face pinched-looking, as if she'd had the worries of the world weighing down her shoulders. He watched her flinch briefly when Ron leaned close to whisper something in her ear, to which she shook her head, causing Ron to purse his lips in annoyance and turn away. This occurred several times during the meeting, and Harry had to wonder what they were discussing. The last time Ron leaned over to say something, Harry could see the ire in Hermione's eyes, the familiar agitation she had always when it came to the redhead. Ron must have realised the thin ice he was skating when her nostrils flared and her chin jutted out in a blatant refusal, for his face became red and he budged his seat away.

The third time the Order was together, Snape arrived late, and so stood in the corner, once again, just behind Hermione. This was when Harry really started to notice the differences in the people seated at the table. Molly and Arthur, usually jovial, were now soft-spoken any time they contributed to the meetings. George was nowhere to be seen. Percy, still stiff and uncomfortable to be around, looked as if he were haunted with guilt. Andromeda Tonks had joined them on occasion, bringing Teddy with her. The only thing that could be said about the witch was that she gave the appearance of someone who had aged sixty years in a single day. Ron was often sullen and withdrawn, looking as he did when wearing Slytherin's Locket. But Hermione had lost that thinly-veiled distress she'd always seemed to have. Likewise with Snape—he was nearly back to the snarky bastard disposition, having 'sufficiently recuperated'; his words, not Harry's. When Harry excused himself to go to the loo during the meeting, it was with a dual purpose. First to rid himself of all the hard cider he'd been drinking lately, and secondly, to sidle up behind the group so that he could observe Snape. Harry cast a Cushioning Charm on his feet when he returned, hoping not to be heard as he approached the kitchen. He lingered in the doorway, near Snape, and resumed observing the man.

What he saw nearly floored him. Hermione was seated before Snape—her head could've easily rested on the wizard's stomach—but there were a few inches in between them. Snape let his hands drop to a position just below his waist, folded. Slowly, almost methodically, Snape's fingers captured strands of Hermione's hair, gently rubbing them, tugging on them imperceptibly. Hermione's eyes closed in what seemed like ecstasy and she let her head drop back. To the casual observer, it looked as if she were easing the tension in her neck. But to Harry, who was anything but when it came to these two, it was sending a clear message: desire. Things started to fall into place—Ron's animosity, Hermione's distance from her one-time boyfriend, Snape's quiet but somewhat rapid recovery.

Harry's chest ached, but he didn't know why. It should've grieved him that Hermione would treat Ron in this manner, but even he had to admit that Hermione and Ron would've eventually had a spat so all-consuming and petty that it would've destroyed what friendship they'd had. It should've disgusted him that a one-time professor dare touch a former student in a way that denoted he felt a tendre for her. However, the only thing that constantly ran through Harry's mind was, _but he was mine!_ That thought brought him up short. Harry, not prone to the emotional outbursts he'd often had in the past, dropped his head and made his way out in the back garden to quietly evaluate his life, hoping to find his answers in the stars overhead.

The fifth meeting coincided with the Christmas season. Ron had clearly taken up with Lavender Brown once more, as evidenced by his kiss-swollen lips when he appeared for the meeting. His easy smile was once again firmly in place. Harry was glad, for it eased a great deal of tension in the atmosphere between the once-lauded Trio. The room was overcrowded that night—every Order member was present, including Bill and a heavily pregnant Fleur. This time, Hermione arrived late, and upon entering the kitchen, stood behind Snape. Harry watched as the tense expression in Snape's face eased considerably when Hermione slipped next to him. There wasn't much to discuss by way of business, so the meeting was to be short. Towards the end, Hermione shifted behind Snape and lifted her hand, as if she were going to place it on his back. Harry held his breath, wondering if she would actually do it in this crowded place. Instead, Harry noted a wistful look fill her eyes as she studied the imposing man before her, her palm scant inches away from Snape's frock coat, slowly moving back and forth, up and down, memorising the contours of Snape's body. Harry could literally see her fingers itch to touch the dark wizard. The meeting dismissed, Hermione withdrew her hand as if she'd been burnt, and tucked it away under her cloak, her face shuttered to impassivity. Harry wondered if she'd learned that habit from Snape.

And now here Harry sat after the end of the sixth Order meeting, alone in the darkened kitchen, a tumbler of Firewhisky in hand, wondering what the hell happened in the past year. That smouldering look that Snape had given Hermione during the meeting a few hours ago was seared into Harry's brain. It hurt and overjoyed him at the same time. Snape had been through so much, too much really, and if he could have a chance at happiness with a witch that apparently returned his regard, then Harry should be content.

He was. Honestly.

Harry just wished it had been himself instead of Hermione.


End file.
